


⟨⟬ﬆay wîth ṁe?⟭⟩

by sonshineandshowers



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Anger born of worry, Bad Things Happen Bingo, Caretaking, Coping, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Mental Health Issues, Papa!gil, self harm ideation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-23
Updated: 2020-04-23
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:08:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23799007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonshineandshowers/pseuds/sonshineandshowers
Summary: Bright asks Gil to stay with him while he takes a breather to get back on his feet into a stable routine.For Bad Things Happen Bingo prompt Anger Born of Worry.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 75
Collections: Bad Things Happen Bingo





	⟨⟬ﬆay wîth ṁe?⟭⟩

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jameena](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jameena/gifts), [TheFibreWitch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFibreWitch/gifts).



> this is my last prompt on the wild and wacky friend's pick edition bad things happen bingo card. i'm dedicating it to my wonderful friends Jameena, hellbent_panda, and TheFibreWitch who graciously picked all the prompts on the card so i'd go in blind <3 you're the best!

Friday night after work having drinks in Malcolm’s kitchen, Malcolm unveiled his grand plan for the next week.

“Bright, this is a terrible idea,” Gil complained, pacing in front of the bar.

“Not _that_ terrible,” Malcolm defended, taking another sip of his tea.

“You can’t lock yourself up.” Gil stopped and glared at him.

Malcolm shrugged. “It’s just staying inside.”

“With no one else around. That’s torture for you.” Led to problems that ended in phone calls to Gil to fix after the fact. Sometimes he couldn’t.

Malcolm considered his statement, running his foot back and forth across the floor. “You could stay with me?” he phrased his need as a question, unsure Gil would be receptive to it.

“Of course, Bright,” Gil quickly stopped his contemplation. “Anytime — anything you need.”

“I don’t know this is going to work,” Malcolm admitted, looking to the floor.

“You won’t know unless you try, right?”

“Yeah.”

Citing family, Gil put in to take a week off work and went back home to grab some things so they could start the weekend together.

* * *

All the alcohol disappeared first, locked in the back of a cabinet Gil kept the key to. “Are you having a problem with that?” Gil asked, playing with the key between his fingers before putting it into his pocket.

“No.” Malcolm looked to the floor like he would find more of an answer, but he shook his head instead, retreating into the kitchen.

Gil sat at the bar, giving Malcolm a bit of space yet remaining close enough to feel connected.

“If you’re gonna stay here, you’re gonna notice some things,” Malcolm started and stopped, pouring himself a glass of water to cover his nervousness. “I’m — “ He paused, the words extra difficult to get out. “ — struggling. With a lot of normal life stuff.”

“There’s not a _normal_ Bright,” Gil soothed. The kid was always comparing himself to what he wasn’t instead of embracing what he was.

“I have a chart of what I need to eat for meals.” Malcolm pulled the paper out of the drawer. “And checkboxes to make sure I take my meds.” He retrieved a second paper. “And a sheet recording how much sleep I’m not getting.” His hand hovered at the drawer, not even bothering to take it out.

Gil didn’t dwell on what Malcolm was failing at. “How can I help?”

Malcolm bit his lip. “I don’t really know you can.”

“What’s on the breakfast list?” Gil reached his hand out.

Malcolm looked at the sheet of paper. “Peanut butter on toast.”

Gil walked around the bar, heading for the bread. “I think I can handle a toaster.”

“I can make you something,” Malcolm offered.

“How about I make me something, and you make some coffee?” Malcolm was not the best cook, and who was looking after who anyway?

“It’s really been disagreeing with me — I put everything away.”

“Bottom shelf, right?” Gil used his foot to point to the cabinet. “I’ll take some. And you can use the water to make yourself tea.”

“Sure. Great.” Moving into action, Malcolm filled the teapot.

“What kind is it these days?” Gil asked while taking eggs out of the refrigerator.

“Ginger.”

“Settles the stomach.”

“That’s the idea.”

They settled into a rhythm of working around the kitchen, preparing themselves light breakfast.

* * *

The sharp objects disappeared next around noontime the following day. Knives, razors, tacks — anything that could pierce his skin got locked up and Gil got another key. He added it to his keychain, starting to wonder how many things they would need to Bright-proof.

“I didn’t use them,” Malcolm was quick to clarify. Then he hung his head. “I wanted,” he stopped and corrected himself, “want to. Maybe. It's just an itch under the skin sorta thing. Easier not to see them.”

“ _Malcolm —_ “ Gil’s voice dipped _very_ concerned. His heart thudded somewhere in the basement

“It’s not a death thing,” he said as if narrowing the scope of harm would make Gil feel any better.

Gil worried his lip, gathering his thoughts. “Thank you for telling me.”

“Pain makes me feel — alive.” Malcolm offered explanation, his look saying he didn’t fully understand it himself. 

“What else makes you feel that way?” Gil asked patiently.

Malcolm shook his head. “You sound like Gabrielle.”

“You try anything she suggested?” Or had the advice fallen on deaf ears with anything else Malcolm didn’t want to listen to, including him.

“Yeah.”

“What worked?”

“Haven’t found it yet.” Malcom squeezed his hands together, Gil knowing he was hiding his tremor.

“Want to come for a run? Can go do the outdoor gym in Hudson River Park?” Gil offered. Hopefully something he hadn’t tried yet.

“Sure.”

“Can you call Gabrielle when we get back?” Gil knew helping meant reaching out when things were outside of his grasp. Self-harm ideation — he needed backup. At least he remembered how to call for it.

“Yeah.”

Gil disappeared upstairs to get changed.

* * *

Running down to the outdoor gym turned into a daily activity. Malcolm liked hanging upside down on the equipment and challenging himself to try progressively more difficult lifts of his own weight. Gil didn’t have a dream to be Spiderman like the kid, but he enjoyed watching him get out of his head a bit in a space that would let him fall a few feet instead of out a window.

A midweek mid-afternoon nap took Malcolm down. He fell asleep at his desk, head over a book. Gil stood in the kitchen, deftly quartering a chicken in preparation for dinner. He looked to the sheets of paper on the counter, noting it was still a few more hours until it was time for Malcolm’s next dose of medicine.

How had they landed here?

The run and calisthenics had burned off some of Malcolm’s energy, but he was still wired. He got confused trying to remember what they had done that morning, blanking on time between breakfast and taking pills.

His kid was _suffering_.

And the most beneficial thing he had been able to come up with so far was make him food.

Some help.

Maybe he should get him to call Gabrielle again when he woke.

Maybe.

Gil didn't want to be a nag about it.

A faint “Mrrrmrrrnrrrr,” coming from the living room perked Gil’s attention. He washed his hands in the sink and returned the chicken to the refrigerator.

“N—n,” got a little louder. Gil cleaned up the rest of his workspace and washed his hands again.

“No — no, no, no,” spoke normally and turned into shouting as the words continued. A tin of pens crashed to the floor, a paperweight and other collected things going with it.

Gil’s head snapped up and Malcolm was bolting across the room, flying past the kitchen and around the corner. The door slammed, and Gil followed after him.

Gil knocked on the bathroom door. “Bright?” he called.

No response.

He knocked a little louder. “Bright?”

Nothing.

Gil jiggled the bathroom door handle.

Locked.

“ _Malcolm?_ ”

Malcolm’s breathing was so loud, he could hear his panic through the door. His eyes flew to the cabinets where they had locked everything away. Caught the hundreds of other items in the apartment that could become makeshift weapons as his eyes made their way back to the door. Was he hurting himself?

“ _Malcolm!_ Open this damn door,” Gil shouted, pounding on it with the side of his fist, his words gritting toward anger in his concern.

Gil took a swing back and forced the door in with his hip, finding Malcolm hyperventilating in the shower. “Nnnnnn,” Malcolm wheezed, holding out his arms to keep anything away from him.

Gil immediately confirmed his primary thoughts of danger were not a problem. There wasn’t any blood. No improvised shivs from toothpaste or shampoo bottles. Just one very cowering, terrified Malcolm.

“Kid — “

Malcolm didn’t notice him — just kept hiding.

“You’re alright — you’re safe. There’s Gil and soup and saltines and licorice and Sunshine — “ Gil paused when he heard a hitch in Malcolm’s breathing. “Sunshine’s safe too.”

Gil turned on the tap, hoping the sound would give him something to focus on.

It didn’t do the trick.

He grabbed a blanket and set it on the entryway to the shower. Lit the candle above the toilet, filling the room with lavender. Soothed, “You’re okay, Bright — you’re okay.” Sat on the floor and wondered what the hell else he could do.

Waited.

Who knew how long.

Malcolm’s breathing slowed down. His legs stretched out on the tile floor, his head leaning into the corner of the shower instead. He opened his eyes, Gil watching them move from the blanket, across the floor to Gil’s feet, up to his face. “Hi,” Malcolm said.

“Breathe with me a few more minutes?” Gil asked. Every moment Malcolm was concentrating on steady breathing was another he wasn’t panicking.

Malcolm nodded, the two of them breathing in the bathroom in silence.

A few minutes stretched on to many more.

“I get night terrors,” Malcolm explained.

“I remember,” Gil indicated. No one would forget the kid almost getting shot in the precinct. Or the hours and hours of screaming he’d endured after Martin’s arrest. Or having to shackle him into bed to get a safe night of sleep.

Malcolm looked around the room.

“Can I get you something?”

“No.”

Gil stood and ran him a glass of water, handing it down to him.

“Thanks.”

Gil returned to the floor.

“You seem worried. I’m sorry,” Malcolm said, taking a sip.

“Don’t apologize.”

“I’m a difficult person to be around.”

“I’m not bothered.” Gil ran a hand over his goatee. “I just want to help.”

“I don’t know how,” Malcolm repeated.

“You used to like baths when you were a kid,” Gil suggested, having spent several nights thinking of things that might help.

“A dip in the tub isn’t going to fix this.”

“Not saying it will. Just that you might feel a little better.”

“I’m a _man_.” Malcolm gestured in front of him. “I’m not supposed to _need_ bath time.”

“I always enjoyed a good soak. Sometimes Jackie would give me a massage…” Gil stopped the path into his memories. “Going to call me less of a man?”

“Gil — “ Malcolm complained.

“Go hop in. I’ll fix dinner.”

“That’s your space,” Malcolm made a last ditch attempt at arguing.

“That I’m borrowing from you. Go.”

Malcolm pushed himself against the wall and got up from the shower floor. Gil stood as well, making sure he got out the door safely.

“Oh — I made you a soothing playlist after our run,” Gil remembered, the activities in between almost dropping the thought from his grasp. “It’s in your texts.”

Malcolm nodded. “Gil?”

Gil rubbed between his shoulders.

“Thank you.”

“Of course.”

* * *

The later in the week they got, the more adds crept in to replace the takeaways.

A new selection of food came in first. Small things that could easily be nibbled like oyster crackers and pretzels. Fruits that could readily give Malcolm sweetness like peaches and apricots. Clementines that provided a burst of energy. Ingredients for protein shakes to make in the blender.

An assortment of meats went into the fridge for Gil. He still stocked Malcolm’s chicken, but hoped to entice him with fresh tastes. A colorful smattering of vegetables took up another shelf that Gil could add into any dish.

Malcolm was the worst person to try to feed. Somehow he had only grown a more difficult palate as an adult. Some days Gil felt like he was playing a game of whack-a-mole where the rodents were always victorious.

As frustrating as Malcolm could be, Gil found purpose in caring for someone again. Not that he’d ever stopped looking out for Malcolm, but it was different staying in his home, making sure his daily needs were being met. Helping him help himself. Coming home to another person.

He needed to talk to Jessica.

After.

When her son was on his feet again.

He was exhausted with worry, from paying attention to every subtle movement to waking to Malcolm screams.

But he wouldn’t trade helping him for anything.

* * *

More new activities came Friday. Cards. Old board games left from when Malcolm and Ainsley were kids, still stuffed into the back of Gil’s closet.

“Do you throw anything away?” Malcolm asked.

“They’re good memories,” Gil responded.

“Of me winning at _Careers_ and _Scrabble?_ “

“Think your memory might be a bit faulty,” Gil complained, setting up the Scrabble board on the coffee table.

“Sounds like a challenge to me!” Malcolm said excitedly, diving into the pieces.

Exactly. Gil knew he wouldn’t be able to resist. A few more hours of time his thoughts wouldn’t be on his failings.

Gil was seeing improvement. In glints of Malcolm’s smile, hints of taking a few extra minutes at yoga instead of pacing. In being first to the door before they went running. In reading in his chair, then putting himself in bed once he started to get sleepy.

In seeing glimpses of his kid he had so long been missing.

* * *

“I think I’m getting used to eating,” Malcolm announced over breakfast Saturday morning. Malcolm had peanut butter on toast _and_ a little bit of jelly.

“Would you like me to make you something extra?” Gil asked, knowing Malcolm’s daily meal suggestions were to get him to a bare minimum of eating.

“No, I’m okay.”

Gil nodded, still working on an omelet over the stove.

“I don’t feel like I’m forcing it anymore.”

“That’s good, right?”

“Yeah.”

Gil smiled. “Celebrate.”

“Like I need a sticker.”

“Dance, kid.” Gil grinned.

Malcolm shook his head.

“Do something to feel like you’re alive,” Gil repeated Gabrielle’s suggestion.

Malcolm paused for a moment, then walked over to Sunshine’s cage, opening the door so she could hop on his hand. “Dance, baby,” he cooed, bobbing his head.

She cheeped and bounced her head back at him.

“You’ve gotta go back to work on Monday,” Malcolm reminded.

“Yes.”

“I’m gonna come in.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah.” Malcolm looked up from his bird. “Can you stay a few more days though?”

“Kid, I promised as long as you need.” Gil plated his breakfast.

“I’m gonna talk with Gabrielle about what a good timeline might be.”

“Good.”

“Appointment this afternoon.”

“Okay.”

“I actually have all my papers filled out. That’s…a first.”

“More celebration.”

Malcolm bobbed his head again, getting Sunshine to mimic him.

“You look a little better, kid.” Getting Malcolm to a more manageable place was going to take weeks, but progress was progress.

“I feel…okay.”

“However long you need.”

Malcolm nodded, letting Sunshine free to fly throughout the loft. He sat at the bar next to Gil, the smell of omelet replacing the scent of stress in the air. Nabbed a corner with his fingers.

“Hey!” Gil complained.

Gil shook him back and forth at the shoulder, annoyed, yet equally pleased they were able to spend the time together helping him.

* * *

_fin_


End file.
